THE NEW YORKER, SEPTEMBER 26, 2016 63
that he, that soldier philosopher, had
meant---we were not soldiers of God
beneath the banner of Christ---but we
had, all the same, placed our school at
the heart of national life.
Among us were six members of par-
liament, ten judges, including the Chief
Justice, enough lawyers to start a hun-
dred class actions, enough doctors to
sta ten district hospitals, and enough
engineers, architects, and quantity sur-
veyors to transform one of our many
growth points into a small city. Almost
every boy had slotted perfectly into his
predestined place.
Except Zaka and Nicodemus. We
talked about them as the afternoon crept
over Loyola. We asked the same ques-
tion that had been asked in court: why
had Zaka done it? An old boy who was
a judge told us that he had followed the
trial when it came before his colleague,
Justice Dendere, an old Mary Ward. Zaka
had refused to speak or o er any justifi-
cation or defense. He had said nothing,
and it was that silence that had finally
condemned him. There were no exten-
uating circumstances. It was a killing
without a purpose, the Judge said, with-
out mercy or remorse. There was only
one possible sentence: death by hanging.
We finally got the truth, or a glimpse
of it, from Kasparov. The timid little
chap who had shadowed Zaka was now
the expansive and voluble owner of an
employment agency that recruited care
workers for hospitals in Luton. In the
heat of that August day, we drank in
every word.
Just before the Division Night on
which Zaka and Nicodemus had be-
come friends, Kasparov had gone to play
a game with Zaka in the Prefects' Room.
Hunched over the chessboard, Zaka had
not seemed himself. He had lost three
games in a row, but still insisted that
Kasparov stay long past the Junior House
bedtime.
Then he had burst into garbled
speech about being caught by Nicode-
mus as he lay in the empty sanatorium
with Gumbo, the boy who would die
after forging his stepmother's signature.
From that moment, Nicodemus had
begun to bleed both boys of money.
Gumbo had tried to pay him o by get-
ting a big sum all at once. When he was
caught, he killed himself. After that,
Nicodemus changed his tactics. It was
attention he wanted now, attention and
friendship. Zaka's friendship.
As Zaka spoke, Kasparov had re-
ceived the tale with mingled horror and
panic. He had not wanted to be the re-
cipient of these dreadful confidences.
Foremost in his mind was the thought
of the demerit he would get if Brother
Peter caught him out of bed. When
Zaka released him, with a forceful dec-
laration that he would get it if he told
anyone about their conversation, Kas-
parov crept away. He was relieved to
find that he had not been missed.
The next day, Zaka acted as though
nothing of moment had happened be-
tween them. By the time half-term came,
Kasparov had almost forgotten about
it. He did not tell anyone. He and Zaka
were bound by the Loyola code of honor:
come what may, you did not tell on an-
other boy.
They never played chess again.
We heard all this with shock and
horror. And though we exclaimed over
the waste and pity, we could not blame
Kasparov for having done nothing.
When we looked around us at the boys
in their uniforms, some of them our
own children, their faces shining with
hope, it came to us just how young we
had all been back then. Kasparov had
been only twelve, turning thirteen that
year. Even the oldest of us were no more
than seventeen. How could any of us
have imagined, in the innocence of those
days, that there had been this darkness
at the school? A darkness that had led
to Gumbo's death and then, all these
years later, to Nicodemus's, and would
now lead to Zaka's own.
We did not linger long on Zaka. We
immersed ourselves in other, happier
memories. We hid our discomfort in talk
of the economy and politics. At the spe-
cial Mass, the choral voices soared with
the same hymns we had sung.The drum-
mers thudded out the fata murungu fata
murungu fata murungu murungu murungu
drumbeat that had been the soundtrack
to our every Sunday. At the close of the
service, we said goodbye to Father Rec-
tor and to our old teachers. As our long
line of cars snaked down into the valley,
the sun fell behind the red roofs of
Loyola. In the distance, we heard the
shrill of the siren that had punctuated
our days, sounding now to indicate to
the children we'd left behind that the
day had ended and it was time to rest.
NEWYORKER.COM
Petina Gappah on the insular world o boarding
school.
"Sometimes, son, the guilt inside builds up so
much you have to vent the shame silo."
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